Steal My Heart
by Bad Faery
Summary: In a fit of generosity, Plunkett allows a noble lady he's robbing to keep her mother's necklace only to find that she's stolen something that belongs to him.
1. Prologue

The pretty little thing didn't look the slightest bit frightened to have a gun waved at her. Her eyes were wide enough, but unless Plunkett missed his guess, she was excited by the situation. "You didn't say 'Stand and deliver!'" she informed him. "That's what they always say in the books."

"This isn't a book," he pointed out, gesturing at her jewelry, and she started like she'd forgotten she was being robbed.

"Do you ever say it?" she asked as she removed her gold earbobs, handing them over without a word of protest.

"Occasionally. Bracelets." She slipped them off her wrists, and Plunkett's eyes followed their trail, telling himself he was making sure she didn't palm anything because he certainly wasn't noticing how tiny her hands were.

"Do each of you have your own part of the road? Or do you just hope no one else is nearby?" The little minx was certainly full of questions, and he bit back a smile at her enthusiasm.

"Thinking of taking up a new line of work?" He took the bracelets from her and jerked his head at her ornate diamond necklace. That would fetch a pretty price.

"Well, I did always want to see the world," she said seriously, and it took him a second to realize she was teasing him.

"Necklace," he prompted, unwilling to engage her any farther in conversation. He couldn't afford to. He was enjoying it too much.

She handed over the diamonds, leaving her bare of jewelry save for the pearl still around her neck, dangling on a delicate gold chain. "And that."

To his surprise, the chit shied back, her hand covering her necklace. "Oh no. Oh no, please. This… it was my mother's. It's all I have of hers." Looking around the fine carriage, she continued, "Take something else, please. I must have something else you want."

She rifled desperately, her face a picture of consternation, and he couldn't do it. The little pearl was all but worthless in comparison to the diamonds anyway. It was worth more around her pretty neck than in his hand. "Please take something else," she pleaded.

For one insane moment, he thought to claim a kiss. One kiss from a noble lady's plush lips would be one hell of a prize, but if she was loathe to lose her necklace, she'd be considerably more unwilling to surrender a kiss.

He holstered his pistol and retrieved his dagger, hearing her gasp when he drew it. A quick flick netted him his prize: one chestnut curl. "Instead of the necklace."

She beamed at him and he tucked the curl into his jacket pocket, wondering if he was losing his mind. "Thank you," she breathed like he'd done her a favor instead of robbing her blind, and he couldn't ride away fast enough, her face hovering before his eyes.

For one moment, she'd looked like she wouldn't have minded if he'd stolen a kiss.


	2. Chapter 1

Plunkett was certain of one thing: this was all Macleane's fault. Unfortunately placing blame didn't matter much when the authorities were hot on your heels, so he forced himself to stop thinking about what he was planning to do to his idiot partner and concentrated on running.

This part of London was fashionable, wealthy, and locked up tighter than a drum, which was problematic. He had less than a block on his pursuers, and while he was tiring, they showed no signs of doing so.

An open window beckoned him, and Plunkett had just enough time to verify that the room beyond looked dark before he flung himself headfirst through it, rolling on the landing in an effort to muffle the sound.

He needn't have bothered. A young woman was sitting next to the fire in what he realized was a library, and she leaped to her feet. He lunged forward, meaning to slap his hand over her mouth to stifle her scream, when her blue eyes lit up. "Oh, it's _you_!"

Plunkett froze, his gaze raking over the young lady that he'd been convinced he'd never see again after permitting her to keep her mother's necklace. Since that night the stolen lock of her hair had never left his pocket, tied neatly with a bit of thread. It was his good luck charm, and it had led him straight back to her. She was dressed in the ridiculously ornate fashion of the _Ton_, but on her the ruffles and huge skirts made her look like some kind of delicious confection. He wondered what she tasted like.

In an effort to cover his confusion, he made one of the bows that were generally his partner's province. "William Plunkett at your service."

She giggled, the sound one of good humor instead of stupidity, and curtsied to him like he was a nobleman. "Isabelle French."

A loud knock sounded at the door of the house, and both their heads swiveled to the closed library door to listen. "We apologize for disturbing the household, but we believe a marauder may have gained entry to your home."

Plunkett cursed under his breath, looking back toward the open window. They'd surely have someone watching the back as the bulk of the force came through the front. He was well and truly caught.

In the hallway were sounds of debate, a man's sonorous voice ringing out, "Be quick about it, and don't harass my daughter."

"Yes, your Grace," came the humble response, and Plunkett nearly swallowed his tongue. His curious little chit was the daughter of an Earl. He was so very fucked.

"Quick!" Isabelle hissed at him as the sound of booted feet drew nearer to the library, "Hide under my skirts."

"_What_?!" There was no way he'd heard that right.

"Hurry up! They'll catch you!" She lifted her skirt enough to reveal slender ankles and shapely calves, and he didn't have time to think before he heard a hand on the door. Darting forward he curled himself around her ankles as she dropped her skirts, surrounding him with silk and lace.

A gentleman would close his eyes, but Plunkett had never claimed to be a gentleman. Instead he strained his eyes to see anything he could as the hoops supporting her skirt and petticoats settled around him.

"My lady, I apologize for disturbing you, but I believe you may be in danger," a male voice said from the doorway.

"Danger?" Isabelle replied, sounding baffled, "From what?"

"We saw a wanted outlaw slip through your window. He may be here now." He inhaled deeply in an effort to stay calm and quiet, the scent of lavender and faint feminine musk flooding his senses. Dizzy, he rested his forehead against her knee, feeling her warmth through her silky pantaloons.

"I believe I would have noticed a man coming through the window, but you're free to look if you're quick about it," Isabelle said frostily, and he could imagine her sticking her pert little nose up in the air.

Footsteps rang through the room as several men searched, all of them keeping a polite distance from Isabelle. "I don't see anything, sir."

"Of course you don't. What need would a ruffian like that have of a library? I doubt he can read," she informed the men who beat a hasty retreat, pulling the door closed behind them.

Her words shouldn't have hurt, yet they did. Plunkett blinked up at her resentfully as she lifted her skirts and stepped back, freeing him from his lacy prison. "I can read."

Isabelle beamed, crouching down in front of him with sparkling eyes. "I don't doubt it," she agreed, "I just wanted them to go away."

Her words soothed him a bit, but he needed to let her know that he was more than just a common outlaw. "I'm not doing this forever. When I get enough money together, I'm sailing for America. I'm going to open an apothecary shop."

There was no earthly reason for him to tell her that. If anything, he'd just given her more information to relay to the authorities, but Plunkett somehow knew that Isabelle would keep his secrets. "America? Really? I've dreamed about going there."

Of course she had. Of course this beautiful, curious little creature wanted to see the world. Isabelle French was bright and funny and cool under pressure, and she smelled like a dream come true.

He could steal her, he thought wildly. He could throw her over his shoulder and ride off with her the same way he stole every other thing he wanted. She put her hands out to help him to his feet, and he took them, feeling her silky skin against his rough palms. What sort of life could he offer her? Isabelle had clearly never worked a day of her life, and America would require hard work and sacrifice. He couldn't steal her.

"Here," she smiled, slipping her gold bracelet from her wrist and offering it to him, "I'm sorry I'm not wearing more."

He couldn't steal her, but he could steal a kiss, the kiss he'd daydreamed about since the night they'd met. With one hand he pushed the bracelet aside as his other arm went around her waist, pulling her off balance so she had to cling to him, her soft little body pressed against him as he lowered his head.

Surely now she would scream. Now she would slap him.

Isabelle did nothing of the sort, making a muffled, excited noise as his lips brushed hers, and Plunkett was lost. He tightened his grip on her, his eager tongue sweeping over her lips, and she parted them for him at once, granting him entry to the warm heaven of her mouth.

Did all noble ladies taste so sweet, or was it Isabelle herself? He chose to believe it was some special magic of Isabelle's, the same magic that made her his perfect match.

His hands were tight on her hips, and she could surely feel his excitement, but she didn't push him away. Instead, her fingers played with the ends of his hair, and if he didn't leave now, he was going to steal far more than a kiss.

With physical effort, Plunkett forced himself to break the kiss, and her dazed blue eyes smiled up at him as her bruised lips curved happily. "Goodbye, Isabelle."

"Belle," she corrected, not letting go, and he was still clinging to her like she was his salvation. "Just Belle."

"I'm Will," he replied, leaning down for another kiss, his hands seeking out the fastenings of her gown, and he had to stop _now_. With a groan, he wrenched himself away from her, stumbling over his own feet as he backed away from Belle, trying to keep her in view for as long as he could before disappearing the way he'd come, the sounds of pursuit now long gone.

He put two streets between them before stopping to lean against a house and close his eyes, relieving the ecstatic memories. His hand delved into his pocket, looking for the lock of her hair, and he came up with the soft curl and a bracelet that he immediately recognized. She'd snuck it into his pocket while he was distracted.

Plunkett grinned into the dark night, his lips shaping her name. _Belle_. Maybe he could steal her after all.


	3. Interlude

Plunkett moved around the perimeter of the ballroom, eyes playing over the jewels on display, dangling precariously from a slender throat or languorous wrist. He could make away with a fortune, and he was willing to guarantee that the vast majority of the insipid crowd would never notice they'd been robbed.

There were a few exceptions to the rule- Macleane's Rebecca was sharp-eyed as well as sharp-tongued and missed little. That meant he had to take extra care when admiring Lady Isabelle, not willing to share his secret just yet.

Plunkett couldn't remember having ever seen Belle at one of these soirees before the evening he'd spent literally hiding beneath her skirts. Now he wondered if she was spending more time out in society or if he'd simply seen her and dismissed her as being as flighty and dull as the rest of her peers. It had to be the first one. He couldn't possibly have been so blind as to think Belle was commonplace.

He saw her nearly every night now, and as Macleane ran his con, Plunkett played a game of his own. His evenings were a torturous dance of following and avoiding. He trailed after Belle, wanting to be in her sphere so he could see her smile and hear her laugh, even if her attention was on other men, yet he didn't dare get close enough for her to notice him and possibly recognize the man behind the mask. Highwayman William Plunkett had mystique that Plunkett the servant never could. He could admire her from afar during parties and play the dashing highwayman on occasion, and she'd be a lovely little diversion until he left England.

Plunkett found himself excessively diverted by thoughts of Belle, and the burning desire to leave for America was slowly starting to fade. It would do no harm to linger for a few extra weeks or months, to gather more memories of Belle to take with him on his voyage. He thought of her far too much for a woman he'd spoken to only twice, and charming little fantasies of stealing her away intruded on his most careful plans.

His fingers slipped into his pocket to caress his lock of hair as he dared get a little closer, wondering if he could steal another breath of her intoxicating scent. Her attention was distracted by someone on the other side of the room, and he should be able to sneak up behind her if he looked as though he was attempting to locate someone so he could deliver a message.

He was only a few feet away when Macleane's voice rang out. "Ah, Plunkett!" he called impatiently, every inch the spoiled nobleman as he waved his servant over, and Plunkett's gut clenched as he saw Belle begin to turn.

The intelligent thing to do would be to lower his head and scurry to his master's side, but some reckless impulse held him in place, boldly meeting Lady Isabelle's eyes in a way that no servant would ever dare. Let her see him- plain and common and low-born. Perhaps the contempt in her eyes would cure his fascination with her.

Her gaze swept over him from his shoes to his hair before her eyes met his, a secret smile in their depths. "Master Plunkett," she murmured, her voice caressing his name, and he managed a proper bow.

"My lady." The polite words concealed a truth- Belle was his. In the moment she'd seen what the mask hid and smiled, she'd made herself his, and he'd never let her go. Somehow he'd find a way to steal her whether she was the daughter of an Earl or a scullery maid. One day Belle _would_ be his.

Her face dimpled as she waved a languid hand at him. "Don't let me stand in your way. But perhaps you could bring me another glass of champagne once your master has finished with you?"

"I'll be sure to deliver one to you at once," he promised, using another bow to hide his own smile. Belle was teasing him and giving him a reason to approach her again all at once. He quite admired her efficiency.

He translated Macleane's drunken complaints into the code that they were, making plans for an evening's heists even as the image of Belle's smiling eyes refused to leave him. For once, the game was only his second most important concern, and he returned to the first as quickly as possible, champagne in hand.

Belle had found a secluded nook that offered them a moment's privacy, and he seized it, standing far too close for his servant's guise. "Will you ever stop surprising me?" she asked archly.

"Never," he vowed, wondering if she'd be surprised if he stole a kiss. From the secret smile she was giving him, he wasn't sure that it would even count as theft.

"Good," she whispered, her lips only inches from his as she pressed a golden bangle into his hand. His fingers itched to clutch at the golden silk of her gown instead, but a burst of noise from far too near reminded him that their little nook wasn't nearly secluded enough. "I'll be waiting," she breathed, disappearing with a rustle of silk and a whiff of lavender and Belle that made sweat bead along his hairline.

He wouldn't keep her waiting long.


	4. Chapter 2

"What is this?"

Macleane barely glanced at the pearl pendant Plunkett was clutching in his hand as his partner showed him his evening's haul. "Took that off a pretty little thing two carriages behind Rebecca's."

There were thousands of pearl pendants in the world. There was no reason to assume that this was Belle's necklace, yet somehow Plunkett knew it was. "Did she ask to keep it?"

Macleane looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "They _always_ ask to keep it. She was a tasty morsel. Pretty hair, not quite ginger but close."

The next time his idiot partner caught a case of the pox, Plunkett was going to let his plonker rot off. The stupid son of a bitch stole Belle's necklace. Pocketing it, he abandoned the rest of the baubles and his partner, ignoring the demand to know where he was going. He had amends to make.

Finding Belle's house again was easy. Part of his mind had memorized the route the moment he realized it was her house he was in, and Plunkett was certain he could find the building if he was blindfolded. He had more time to look around this time since he wasn't being chased, and he found himself facing a number of darkened windows, the entire household apparently abed, as was only proper for four in the morning.

He could hardly pay a call on Lady Isabelle before tea like he was a proper gentleman, so four in the morning would have to do instead. Plunkett made his way around the house, assuming that as the Earl's daughter Belle would have a bedroom sheltered from the noise of the street and probably overlooking the gardens. She would be safer in the back of the house, protected from ruffians like him.

One of the back windows was open, and Plunkett hoped for the best as he started to climb. From their adventure in the library, he already knew that Belle liked fresh air. The ivy provided solid handholds, and he took his time making his way up the house, careful not to attract attention.

When he reached the open window he hesitated. The room was dimly lit, but he caught the overall impression of lace. He stuck his head into the room and inhaled deeply, the aroma of lavender sweeping over him. This was indeed Belle's room.

Moving silently, he slipped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. The only light in the room was the dying fire, and it provided just enough of a glow to let him see the massive bed shrouded by damask curtains. Plunkett moved closer and gingerly eased back the curtain on the left side of the bed. Somehow he knew Belle must sleep on the left if only because he preferred the right.

The moon came from behind the clouds at the exact moment he drew the curtain, bathing Belle's face in a silvery glow. She looked delicate and ethereal and far too good for a scoundrel like him. He should leave the necklace and be gone, but Plunkett wasn't used to denying himself anything he wanted.

Crouching beside the bed, he carefully placed his hand over Belle's mouth, afraid she'd scream the house down before she realized who her visitor was. It was presumptuous as hell to think she wouldn't scream if she knew it was him in her bedroom, yet somehow he knew she wouldn't.

Her body stiffened as she awoke, and she flailed, trying to get away from him and biting at his hand to force him to release her mouth. Proud of her spirit, Plunkett joined her on the bed, using his own body weight to hold her down and stop her thrashing as he hissed in her ear. "It's me! Belle, It's me. It's Will."

She went still, her body relaxing at once. He lifted his hand off of her mouth, hoping she wasn't gulling him. "Will! You scared me to death! What are you doing here?"

Her voice was sharp but quiet, and Plunkett noticed she'd made no effort to tell him to get off of her. If Belle didn't mind having him blanketing her, he wasn't about to move of his own accord. "I brought you a present."

He slipped his hand into the same pocket where he kept his lock of her hair and came up with the pendent, dangling it just above her pert little nose. Belle squinted at it until a stray moonbeam showed her what he was offering her, and her eyes went warm and soft. "My necklace! How did you-?"

Belle had tolerated plenty already, but Plunkett wasn't about to tell her that his erstwhile partner had robbed her. That might be the final straw in their association. "I stole it from a thief."

"Thank you," she whispered as he fastened the thin chain around her delicate throat. "I never thought I'd see it again."

He wanted to promise to keep it always safe for her, but it wouldn't be honorable to make a promise he couldn't keep. All he knew was that if she lost it again, he'd do everything in his power to put it back where it belonged.

"Thank you," she murmured again, then her fingers dove into his hair, pulling him down to her lips. Plunkett obeyed her wordless command, his mouth finding hers in the dark as his hands set to work busily exploring her sides through the bed linens. Beneath the bedclothes, Belle was clad only in a thin chemise. She was essentially naked in comparison to the layers and layers that comprised her normal wardrobe. He could feel every bit of her plastered against him.

Grunting, he forced himself to roll off of her, realizing that meant she could feel every bit of _him_ too, including the bit that was currently straining impatiently for her touch, uncomfortably constricted by his breeches.

That was the theory anyway. In reality, he had barely managed to lift himself off of her when Belle's arms went around his neck, pulling him right back down and holding him there. "Will..." she whimpered against his lips, and he subsided with a soft groan. He'd tried being a gentleman. It hadn't worked. Being a gentleman could go fuck itself. Belle wanted him, and the sound of his name on her tongue was driving him mad.

Her sweet little body was moving beneath him, squirming artlessly, and his mouth went dry as he reached down to grab her hip. If she kept grinding herself against his cock like that, he was going to disgrace himself. "Will..." she moaned, her voice breathy, and Plunkett wondered if she had any idea what she was begging him for.

Her eyes were glazed, her breathing ragged, and they'd barely begun. His Belle was an innocent; he'd gamble everything he owned on it. He couldn't deflower a noble lady; they'd shoot him at sunrise. One look into Belle's wide eyes told him that it would almost certainly be worth it. Still, it would be theft, and certain things couldn't be stolen.

Pleasure, however, could be given, and that was what he set out to do. Keeping his mouth locked with hers to muffle her soft cries, he let his hands explore the outside of her chemise, feeling her heat and softness. When he tentatively cupped her breast, Belle jerked her hips into his, and he barely kept the presence of mind not to bite her lip as he fought to hold back. The little minx would be the death of him.

She arched into him as he squeezed her breast, rubbing his thumb over her nipple until it hardened into a tight little bud. Plunkett would have given anything he had to be able to lavish that bud with his lips and tongue, but if he took his mouth off of hers, he didn't trust her to stay quiet. Belle's frantic noises of pleasure were a balm to his pride, but they made things damnably complicated considering they weren't alone in this house.

Instead he pinched and teased her nipple until it was Belle's turn to bite, drawing blood from his bottom lip. She pulled back with a hiss of dismay, "Oh, I'm so sorry."

Grinning, he captured her mouth and did it again before turning his attention to her other breast. He'd wear her marks with pride, wear any mark she wanted to grace him with since she couldn't wear his. Beneath him she shifted impatiently, rubbing herself against him, and he could deny her nothing. He wasn't stealing; he was giving. This was for his Belle.

He pressed his knee between hers, and she parted her legs for him at once, letting him settle his leg between hers, too many layers still between them, but fewer now than ever before. He could feel every soft curve, feel the heat of her even through her chemise and the bedclothes as he pressed his knee harder into the feather mattress so his thigh was tight against the place he _knew_ was deliciously ready for him.

Her nails dug into his shoulders through his coat. He'd been a fool not to take it off, not to disrobe as much as he could before waking her. He wouldn't make the same mistake again, assuming she didn't station an armed guard in her room after this. Plunkett bit her whimpers and cries from her lips as he fondled her breasts, feeling her curvy little body moving instinctively against him, riding his thigh.

He tried to hold himself away, but Belle was having none of it, wrapping her arms around him so tightly that they were plastered together, his cock rubbing against her belly with every move she made. He didn't move a muscle, the effort of staying still tearing at his sanity as he let Belle take what she wanted from him.

Instead he devoted his full attention to plundering her mouth, stealing all of her secrets. No matter how long he kissed her there was always more to discover, and at some point he realized there always would be. No matter how much of Belle he got, he would always want more.

Beneath him she tensed, and he lost the battle, rubbing his thigh against her until she quivered and screamed into his mouth, and he swallowed every precious noise. Afterward she blinked up at him, flushed and dazed and damp with perspiration, and her smile all but lit the room. "Oh, Will..."

His cock surged, the mere sound of his name in that happy, sated voice driving him over the edge. He muffled his groan against her shoulder as he spent himself, and Belle stroked his hair, her nails scratching lovingly against his scalp, and Plunkett never wanted to be anywhere else, sticky breeches or no.

He stole another kiss, Belle sighing against his mouth until she eased him away from her. "The sun's coming up," she whispered, and he could hear the regret in her voice. "The maid will be in soon."

They could draw the bed curtains, and she could plead a headache, and they could spend the day in bed. He could teach her everything he knew about this art, and his Belle would be an eager student. It would be glorious. Until he was caught. And shot.

With a groan he dragged himself off of her, stealing one last kiss from the disheveled beauty he was leaving in bed. "One of these days," he vowed against her lips, "I'm going to steal you."

Belle watched him as he once again approached the open window. Just as he swung one leg out, she called softly after him, "I'll be waiting."


	5. Chapter 3

The winding stretch of road had become one of Plunkett's favorites. The way the road curved made it impossible for the gentry to see what awaited them, and the narrow path left no room to maneuver once they did. A single highwayman could make a fortune in a single night, striking with ease and retreating into the safe haven of the bordering trees.

He'd taken to suggesting he and Macleane split up more and more often, having no interest in sharing Belle with his partner. She was his prize and his secret, and that was the way he liked it. He was particularly looking forward to tonight; she'd made mention of her plan to visit an estate that lay along this road loud enough for him to overhear her during another interminable party, and the sparkle in her eyes told him that she wouldn't mind at all if he waylaid her.

Eagerly, he forced his horse into a trot only to discover that someone else had already claimed the place for his own. His competition was a clumsy amateur if the unconscious coachman was anything to go by, and Plunkett was already making plans to run the bugger off when he recognized the otherwise empty coach as Lady Isabelle's personal conveyance.

Of the lady herself there was no sign, and he dismounted, peering into the dark woods in hopes of catching a glimpse of her. The other side of the road was carved from the living rock; there was only one way she could have gone.

He tied off the horse just out of sight of the road and darted into the wood, straining his ears. The rage that filled him made it hard to think, much less do any kind of tracking. Someone had threatened Belle, and if she'd been hurt, someone was going to _die_.

In the dim light, Plunkett could barely see where he was going, but a muffled grunt reached his ears, and he broke into a run, dodging trees just moments before he would have plowed into them when he heard a feminine scream. "Help! I'm over here! _Over here_!"

Belle's voice cut off abruptly, but it provided enough of a direction for him as he drew his gun, plowing into a moonlit clearing to see a dark-haired man pinning Belle against a tree, his hand over her mouth as she struggled. The highwayman's focus was on her, neither of them noticing his less than stealthy entrance.

The bastard had a knife to her throat, and Plunkett had seen all he needed to see. The thief's life had been forfeit from the moment he touched Belle. Shooting him while he grappled with her wasn't an ideal solution, but if the other man caught wind of his presence, he could hurt her, and that wasn't a risk Plunkett was willing to take.

Keeping his distance, he sidled around the edge of the clearing, making sure he could get a clean shot. He had one chance, and he would not allow Belle to come to harm because of his actions.

With a steady hand, he aimed, drawing a bead on the man's temple. It wouldn't be pretty, but it would be fast and effective, and he hoped she'd be able to forgive him for the brutality she was about to witness. He squeezed the trigger, barely feeling the kick as the man suddenly jerked away from Belle, his body going limp as a rag doll's. Plunkett sprinted toward her, catching her in his arms as he turned her away from the corpse. "Don't look. I've got you, Belle. You're safe."

"Will... _Will_," she gasped, burrowing against him desperately, and he kept his arms tightly around her as he walked backwards out of the clearing, leading her away from the body. He hoped he'd been fast enough to prevent her from seeing it at all. "You're here. You found me."

"Always," he vowed, and she sobbed. Even when he'd intruded on her sleep, she hadn't been this vulnerable, and her tears broke his heart. Belle was his, and he'd find a way to keep her safe. He needed to hold her closer, and he let himself slide down a tree to sit on the ground, pulling Belle into his lap and wrapping himself around her.

"I thought he was you at first," she confessed. "I wore extra jewelry tonight just in case."

Her voice broke, and he closed his eyes and tightened his embrace, resting his cheek on her hair. "What did he do to you, love?"

"He took the jewelry and my book, but then he wanted more. He said such crude things, and he had a knife, and I didn't know what to do. I tried to lose him in the trees, but my dress-" In her fancy dress, she wouldn't have stood a chance. Had he not come along, having her jewelry stolen would have been the least of Belle's worries.

"Did he hurt you?" If the answer to that question was yes, he was going to take up fucking necromancy and bring the son of a bitch back to life just so he could kill him again more slowly the next time. Then he'd put the pieces back together and do it again.

"No," she whispered, "He would have, but you found me. Oh Will, don't let me go."

"Never." He held her fiercely close, his own eyes stinging. It had been such a near thing tonight. He could so easily have lost her forever, and all the logical arguments about why they couldn't be together seemed petty. If Belle was with him, he could keep her safe.

Her hands went around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss, and he groaned against her mouth. He could have lost her, but he hadn't. Belle was here and warm and alive and his, and with her coachman knocked out, there was no one to interrupt. Her fingers slid into his hair to hold him against her, and he wasn't going anywhere. His hands found the bare skin revealed by the low back of her dress and stroked, amazed by how soft she was.

Belle snuggled closer, straddling his lap to cling to him, and he grunted, hardening at the feel of her, even though her gown. "Belle..." he groaned, and she arched into him like a wanton, pressing her breasts against his chest. Keeping one hand on her back to hold her close, he cupped her breast through her dress and squeezed, relishing how perfectly she fit into his hand.

She made a smothered, gasping noise that made him feel like a god, then he found himself plunging his hand into the bodice of her dress, desperate to feel her warm skin. Belle tore her lips from his with a ragged cry, her eyes wide and shocked in the moonlight.

As he watched, she bit her lip, wriggling against him maddeningly, the look on her face half of pleasure and half of consternation. Plunkett didn't move a muscle, waiting for her to relax before he stole another kiss, unable to shake the feeling of guilt that was growing in the back of his mind. Belle was a noble lady and deserved better than a quick tumble in the middle of the woods. Worse, she'd just been attacked. She was vulnerable, and he was taking advantage whether she realized it or not.

Carefully, he withdrew his hand from her dress and put his arms around her, kissing her temple as she snuggled into him. "I'm sorry, love," he murmured, running his hand soothingly over her back.

"I think I liked it," she confessed shyly, and the woman was trying to kill him; that was the only possible explanation. Groaning, he claimed her lips again, forcing himself to keep it gentle.

"We should get you home," he said reluctantly, and she tightened her grip on him.

"Not yet. Will, please." No man could resist such a plea, and he wanted nothing more than to settle her on his horse before him and ride off into the night. They'd elope to Scotland and then go on to America, and he'd never have to part with her again.

"When are you going to steal me?" she whispered, her voice muffled against his neck.

"Soon. Very soon." He still didn't have enough money to provide any kind of decent life for her in America, and he wouldn't have her live in a hovel. Plunkett could imagine no fate worse than subjecting Belle to a life of squalor and having her regret leaving England. If he doubled his efforts, in a few more months he should be able to provide her with a comfortable life, if not one that lived up to her current standards of luxury. That would have to do. "A few more months, and we'll go to America."

"I'm glad," she murmured, "I'm getting tired of waiting."

"So am I." He kissed the top of her head. Watching her across the room at parties was a form of torture, having to tolerate watching upper class twits circle her like vultures. Belle was his perfect match, and he was sick of sharing her.

"Miss Isabelle?" The call of a worried voice intruded on their moment, and he sighed as Belle stirred in his arms.

"Martin," she murmured, her brow furrowing as she said guiltily, "Oh, I forgot about him! That ruffian knocked him out."

"He sounds fine now," Plunkett reassured her, reluctantly helping her to her feet before standing himself.

Belle caught his hand, tugging him with her, then froze, her eyes filling with dismay as she turned to him. "You can't come with me, can you?"

Explaining what he was doing there and what they'd been doing in the woods would raise far more questions than Belle reappearing on her own, miraculously unmolested. Swallowing hard, he shook his head, and Belle's pretty face creased with indignation. "You saved me, and we can't even tell anyone."

The thought of his heroism going unrecognized bothered him less than the thought of leaving Belle out of his sight. "Should I come to you tonight?"

"You have to ask?" Her wry disbelief left him feeling better about things, and the kiss she rewarded him with helped even more. "I'll leave my window open."

He guided her a little closer to the main road, stealing one last kiss before retreating into the shadows as Belle ruffled her hair a little more and started to call for her driver. She gave a performance worthy of the stage as she told her story about being accosted and escaping into the woods, losing her pursuer and herself in the process. The driver seemed so pleased to see her unharmed that he didn't ask questions, fussing over her like she was his own daughter.

Reassured, Plunkett kept one ear on them as he went back to find the corpse, searching the highwayman's possessions for Belle's jewelry and barely resisting the urge to grind his boot into the dead man's face. Her book had landed in the mud, and he glared down at it, wondering if it was salvageable.

Hurriedly, he tucked it away and found his horse, trailing Belle's carriage from a distance until she was once more securely within the city limits. She'd be safe now.

He found a pub with decent lighting and ducked inside to examine the damage to the book. Mud had saturated the pages, and there was nothing he could do to render it once again readable. He could restore her jewelry but not her book, and the failure nagged at him until another possibility presented itself.

No bookseller would be open at this hour, but he hadn't really planned to pay for a replacement anyway. Finishing off his pint, Plunkett made a note of the book's title before tucking it inside his jacket. Muddy as it was, it was hers, and he couldn't bring himself to dispose of it.

He took note of the moon's position, assuming he had at least another two hours until Belle would be tucked up in bed and waiting for him with her household asleep. He had plenty of time to procure his gift before calling on his lady. Mounting his horse, he set off on his errand, visions of America and Belle always at his side spurring him on.


	6. Chapter 4

Picking the bookseller's lock was the work of moments, and Plunkett shaded his candle with his hand as he searched the shelves for another copy of _Gulliver's Travels_ for Belle. The leather-bound volume he found wasn't an exact match for hers, but it looked expensive enough, and he exhaled in relief, tucking it into his jacket before settling in to look around. No one had come to investigate, and he had a bit of time still before it would be safe to call on his lady.

If one book was a good present, several books would be a better one, and he prowled the shop, gathering a collection of titles that he'd heard about, hoping at least a few of them would be new to her. Satisfied with his 'purchases' he was about to leave when a final volume caught his eye- _The Rape of the Lock_. His hand stole into his pocket to caress Belle's curl as he added it to his pile.

The heavy leather satchel slowed him down as he made the climb to her window, but he would have made the ascent even if he'd had bricks tied to his feet. Belle was expecting him. Her face lit up as he poked his head into her room, his lady clad only in an ivory silk chemise as she sat up in bed with a book in her hands. Her hair was braided in two plaits, and she looked so young and innocent that he was nearly afraid to approach her lest he sully her with his rough hands.

"You came," she breathed, and his hesitance melted away as she tossed back one corner of the bedclothes invitingly. She'd drawn the curtains around all but the side of the bed nearest the window, creating a cozy nest for the pair of them, and he shucked off his jacket and boots as quickly as he could before crawling into bed beside her.

Belle pressed herself into his arms, and he pulled her close, feeling her warm breath against his throat. "You came," she said again, her voice shaking.

"For you? Always," he vowed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as she started to tremble.

"I was so scared, Will," she confessed, and he tugged her closer, pulling her into his lap as he rubbed her back. "I'm not brave like you."

He made a noise of distress at her words. Belle was the bravest woman he'd ever known. She'd teased him when he had a pistol in her face and kept her composure in the library when he'd panicked. The bastard had frightened his brave Belle, and Plunkett wished he hadn't killed him so quickly.

"He had a knife to your throat," he said hoarsely, "I've never been more terrified."

She sobbed, pressing tighter into his embrace until she was straddling his lap, and it was just like it was in the forest only now she was tucked up safe in bed with him, exactly where they were supposed to be. The few months it would take him to win them enough money to make a life in America felt like an eternity. He needed to be with her _now_, to protect her and keep her safe.

Tears soaked the front of his shirt and he moaned. He'd always been hopeless with tears. "Don't cry, love. Don't. I'm here now. You're safe."

If anything, she only cried harder at that, and he fumbled desperately in his pocket, the curl of her hair falling out as he retrieved her necklace, fastening it around her throat. "Look, love. It's your necklace. I got it back for you just like I promised."

To his relief, her sobs quieted, replaced by a watery chuckle as she brushed her fingers over the delicate pearl. "Of course you did," she whispered, and he pulled his sleeve over his hand to wipe away her tears. "Oh, Will..."

"I have something else for you," he prompted, trying to distract her further.

"Keep the jewelry," she sighed, resting her head against his chest over his heart. "I never want to see it again."

He'd add it to their nest egg, moving them one step closer to their dream of America. Reaching down, he snagged the strap of his satchel and lifted it onto the bed with them. "You might want these though."

Plunkett glanced down at her to see that Belle wasn't even looking at the bag. Instead, her attention had been arrested by something else. He could feel his face heating as she stretched out her hand to pluck the curl of her hair off the mattress. "This... Is this mine?"

Taking the curl from her, he held it up against one of her plaits to compare. "Looks like yours."

A delighted smile spread over her face, curing his embarrassment. "You kept it."

"Of course," he agreed, "It's yours." Belle was his prize. Anything that belonged to her was a treasure.

She beamed up at him, lifting her face for a kiss, and he claimed her lips eagerly, relieved that she seemed to be feeling better after her traumatic experience. He indulged himself with the thought that he'd been the one to comfort her as her eyes shone up at him with absolute trust, and Plunkett vowed to be worthy of it.

For the first time in his life, he found himself wishing he was of noble birth. If he was, he could court Belle properly, present himself to her father and stay always at her side. He could keep her safe, and he'd never have to watch in impotent rage as other men flirted with her.

The thought of publicly staking his claim on Belle was intoxicating, but if he were of noble birth, he'd never be able to climb through her window and crawl into her bed. Propriety would prevent him from claiming anything but the most chaste of kisses, and honor would dictate that he never saw her less than fully dressed. Life would be easier if he were noble, but there were things he'd never be willing to trade away.

"Brings me luck," he told her as he tucked the curl safely back into his pocket, maneuvering them until she was sitting between his thighs, her warm weight leaning back against his chest. He deposited the satchel in her lap. "Open your present."

The first book she pulled out was _Gulliver's Travels_, and she sighed in happiness. "My book!"

"Yours was ruined," he admitted, thinking of the muddy book still sequestered in his saddlebag. There was nothing he could do to fix it, but the thought of getting rid of anything that belonged to Belle was an anathema to him. He nudged her. "Keep going."

"There's more?" She delved back in the bag, going quiet as she pulled out the other seven books he'd stolen for her. Belle arranged them around her in a semi-circle and just looked at them, not saying a word.

Her silence made him nervous. "You've probably read all of them. If you tell me what you want, I'll replace them." He should have known better than to try to make such a gesture. Belle was a _lady_. No doubt she had all the books she could ever want. He would have been better served by getting her a dagger so she could defend herself.

Belle twisted in his arms, straddling his lap with an unreadable expression on her face. "You brought me books."

"I'm sorry." Somehow he'd gone wrong, and he hoped she'd forgive him for his mistake.

Her hands went around his neck, tugging at his hair. "Everyone thinks it's strange that I read. Papa doesn't like it." A breathless, amazed smile bloomed on her face. "You brought me _books_."

Her lips collided with his, and Plunkett wrapped his arms around her as it slowly dawned on him that he'd done something right. Belle was pleased with his gift.

Belle was warm and eager in his arms, her little body pressed so closely to him that he could feel every exquisite curve of her. He wasn't like Macleane, didn't seek out sex with the fervor of a wolf scenting prey, and never had he felt such need.

He could have her. He could rip off her chemise and tip her onto her back. She'd welcome him. He could bury himself in Belle and ruin her for any other man. She'd be his in the most basic possible way.

Part of him wanted that more than he wanted his next breath. The other part of him- the part that still clung to his honor despite the lifestyle he led- rebelled at the thought. Belle was no harlot to tumble and forget. She was a lady in the truest sense of the word, nothing like the fancy strumpets Macleane was so fond of. She was going to be his wife, even if he had to steal her first. They were going to do this _properly_.

He gentled the kiss, nuzzling at her lips until he felt like he'd regained some self-control. Against him, Belle sighed and snuggled close as he stroked his hand over her back, bringing both of them down from their earlier frenzy. Once her breathing returned to normal, he placed one last kiss on her lips and turned his attention back to the books. "Are any of them new for you?"

To his pleasure, she nodded. "Most of them are." She stroked gentle fingers over _The Rape of the Lock. _ "I've been wanting to read this one."

Reaching around her, he gathered up the books, placing them on the small table beside the bed and keeping the volume of Pope for himself. With Belle cuddled against his side, her head on his shoulder, he opened the book and started to read.

He stole glances down at her, taking in the sweet curve of her lips as she smiled, her blue eyes drifting shut as he read her the story of a war raged over a stolen lock of hair. Pope made it clear that he found the whole situation ridiculous, but Plunkett's mind strayed to his own stolen curl. He of all people knew how significant such a small thing could be.

Eventually Belle drifted into sleep, her arm around his waist, and he put the book aside and just looked at her. This time was too precious to waste in sleep. He had Belle in his arms, warm and trusting, and in a few more months he would never have to let her go again.

As she dozed, he toyed with her plaits, undoing them so he could stroke his fingers through her hair, grounding himself in her reality. Later Plunkett knew that he'd sleep and dream that he'd been too late, that her life had been snuffed out in that clearing before he reached her. This moment was his talisman, and he'd steal as much time with her as he could.

Even as daybreak approached, he stayed where he was, his hand splayed against her back so he could feel her breathing. It was only when he heard movement in the house that he reluctantly disengaged from Belle, kneeling at her bedside to kiss her forehead before pulling on his jacket and boots, sliding the books under her bed for safekeeping. He was her secret as much as she was his, and they had to keep their secret just a little longer.

With a final kiss, he slipped out the window and away from the house, losing himself in the predawn light. Plunkett felt like he was leaving a piece of himself behind, and he busied his mind with plans for their future to distract himself. Tonight he'd see Belle again. In the meantime, it was about time he had a chat with Macleane about their finances.


	7. Chapter 5

Macleane proved elusive that day, busy with God knew what. Plunkett assumed Rebecca was leading him on a merry chase, and his thoughts turned, as they so often did, to Belle. As his best guess they were two months away from being able to leave for America, one if he could persuade her to bring some of the family silver with her when he stole her away. It wasn't long to wait, yet he felt like he'd been waiting his entire life for her.

Stolen nights were no longer enough when he wanted a lifetime at her side, but that was all they had. The sight of her in the midst of a crowd of admirers set his teeth on edge, Belle pretending not to notice him as he hovered like a dark, jealous cloud just outside the ring of gaiety. It was hard to stay where he was when he knew he could simply walk up and seize her lips in front of everyone. He could claim her as his own and never have to watch another man fawn over her.

The scandal would ruin her, and while he knew Belle didn't give a fig for society's opinion of her, it would make stealing her considerably more complicated if her father decided to have him shot. If he could just be patient for one more month, he could have her forever.

His impatience carried over to the night's work, and never had he been so brutally efficient. Every successful robbery put him one step closer to his future with Belle, and he wanted that future so badly that his body ached.

It was early yet when he made his way to Belle's home, so early that he feared the servants might still be about their business, yet the reckless impulse to see Belle outweighed his caution. He clung to the ivy just beneath her open window, listening for voices or movement in her room and hearing nothing but a faint splashing noise.

Puzzled, he stuck his head in, his jaw dropping at the sight of Belle lounging in a copper tub near the fireplace. Before he could decide whether to do the honorable thing- retreat and return later- or do what he actually wanted to do- climb through the window and join her in her bath, Belle glanced up, her face lighting up at the sight of him. "Will!" she called in a whisper, "You're early."

A wet hand beckoned him in, and he nearly fell through the window, his eyes fixed on the graceful line of her collarbone. Belle's curls were tied up in a loose knot, baring her slender throat, and he could see little rivulets of perspiration on her skin that he would have died for the privilege of licking away.

"I sent my maid to bed," she smiled as he slowly approached, drawn in by her radiance like a moth to a candle flame. "No one will bother us."

"I should… let you dress," he said reluctantly, trembling with the effort of looking only at her face. When he'd hidden under her skirts in the library, he'd strained his eyes to see everything he could, but that was before he'd really known her. That was before she was going to be his wife. That was before he loved her.

"Sit with me," Belle invited, and he obeyed without a thought to the contrary, leaning back against the tub as her wet hand found his hair and stroked. "Tonight was dull."

"You looked like you were enjoying yourself," he murmured, eyes fluttering closed at her caress as he voiced his jealousy. He knew Belle had no interest in any of the men who'd surrounded her, but it still hadn't been pleasant to watch.

"I was taking stock of their valuables." Plunkett could hear the smile in her voice. "You should teach me how to pickpocket."

"Be a waste of time," he said, and her hand stilled until he continued, "All you'd have to do is ask. Any man would give you whatever you want."

She tugged on a lock of hair reprovingly. "Any man?" she asked, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of her tone of voice. "Even you?"

"Especially me," he admitted, turning to get up on his knees and lean against the tub. She seemed to be thinking about something, and he traced a bead of perspiration from her hairline down the curve of her cheek before letting his hand rest against her throat. "What should I steal for you?"

Under his fingers, Plunkett could feel her swallow hard. "Me," she said, almost inaudibly.

It was tremendously comforting to know that she was as eager for their life together as he was. "Soon," he promised, "Another month, maybe two and we'll leave."

He stroked his thumb over her pulse point, stilling when Belle shook her head. "No, Will," she murmured, and his heart sank. This was their plan, their dream. She couldn't change her mind now.

Before he could protest, Belle caught hold of his wrist. "Steal _me_," she repeated, moving his hand until it rested on her bare breast.

The strangled, gasping noise that came out of his mouth was absolutely ridiculous, but Belle smiled like he'd given her a compliment. She was so very soft, and he squeezed instinctively, watching dry mouthed as she tipped her head back with a soft moan of pleasure.

He'd intended to wait and do things properly- marry her first- but Belle was arching into his touch, her eyes dazed with pleasure, and there was no way he could deny her. He was no gentleman, had never been a gentleman, and there was no point in pretending otherwise. "Get out of there," he growled, and she beamed at him as she stood up.

This time Plunkett let his eyes wander, and Belle was certainly a sight to see. She was pale and slim, tiny enough to make him feel tall in comparison with lush curves that begged for a man's hands- his hands. Water poured off of her, making her look like some kind of goddess of the sea, and when she held her hands out to him, it felt like a blessing.

Taking her hands, he helped her step out of the tub, leading her a few steps to the plush rug in front of the fireplace and guiding her down. "I'm all wet," she murmured, and he groaned at her innocent entendre. "And you're overdressed."

He held her gaze as he went to work on his clothing, quickly shedding his jacket and shirt. Belle watched in fascination, her eyes wide but unafraid. She seemed completely unselfconscious of her own nudity, and Plunkett strove for the same composure. He was a small man, but he had a wiry strength that he hoped she would appreciate enough to ignore the scattering of unsightly scars.

He could tell the moment she noticed the first one, a jagged white line across his ribcage. Her eyes went from warm appreciation to concern, and she breathed his name. "Oh, Will…"

Belle had been gently bred, but he certainly hadn't been, and his rough life showed on his skin. "They don't hurt," he promised, hesitating before he went any further as he searched her expression for any hint of revulsion, or worse, pity.

Instead he saw only sympathy and a fierce protectiveness that took him by surprise. "You should be more careful," she instructed. "I want you in one piece."

He gave her his best deferential bow, his smirk betraying the servile gesture. "Yes, my lady."

Belle did her best not to smile, but her dimples gave her away. "You still have clothes on," she reminded him.

"So I do," he replied, not quite able to believe this was happening. Getting his boots off was a bit of an undertaking, and he nearly fell into the tub at one point, but soon enough only his trousers were left, and he hesitated with his hands hovering over the fastenings. "Do you know what to expect?" Belle was an innocent, but he wasn't sure _how_ innocent she was, and it wouldn't do to frighten her.

Belle raised an eyebrow. "I've read _Canterbury Tales_," she said drily, "I doubt you can shock me."

Relieved that he wasn't going to have to explain anything, Plunkett undid his trousers and let them drop, seeing Belle's eyes go wide at her first sight of his half-hard cock. "Or perhaps you _can_ shock me," she corrected herself.

Concerned, he moved to kneel in front of her, not sure if the way she was staring at his cock was a good thing or a bad one. "Belle?"

Her face flushed, and she couldn't quite meet his eyes as she murmured, "I'm sorry, I just wasn't expecting it to be so… big."

His soul, which had been prepared to shrivel up and die during her pause, filled with ridiculous pride, preening at her words. Fighting the urge to reach for her, he rested his hands on his thighs, palms up. This had to be her decision, her choice. He wouldn't steal this from her. "I won't hurt you," he promised.

Her mouth quirked in a small smile. "I know you won't. I trust you, Will."

With that she placed her hands in his, and he tightened his hold on them, the pair of them kneeling naked before the fire, hand in hand. It felt like a ceremony, a wedding, although no church would ever approve of what they were doing. "I love you, Belle."

"I know you do," she said unexpectedly, giggling at whatever look he had on his face. "I knew the night you brought me my necklace back. I love you too."

Had he loved her that night? He probably had. Plunkett had a feeling that he'd fallen in love with her the night he'd stolen her curl instead of her necklace. It had just taken him awhile to realize it. Belle, of course, had figured it out immediately.

"Impossible wench," he growled, tackling her to the plush rug and trapping her beneath him as he nipped at her earlobe.

Belle muffled a laugh with her hand, reminding him that they were far from being alone in the house and caution was necessary. He stopped teasing her and instead reached up to undo her hair, sending her curls cascading to the floor around her. Plunkett propped himself up on his elbows as he carded his fingers through them, arranging them so they haloed her face. "My beautiful Belle."

She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, but it wasn't her face that had entranced him but her spirit. Belle had been made for him- his perfect mate- and he had been created solely for her. Tonight he would prove it.

Lowering his head, he indulged in her mouth for long minutes, relearning the taste of her. His memories could never quite capture her exact combination of sweetness and spice, and the only remedy would be to have her always at his side so he could constantly remind himself just how delicious she was.

"Tell me if I do something that doesn't please you," he cautioned, trusting Belle to let him know if he did anything she found distasteful. He wanted nothing to mar this experience for her.

He devoted himself to kissing her throat and collarbone, scraping his teeth carefully over the place where her neck met her shoulder, longing to leave his mark on her and warn off every other man who looked at her. The need for secrecy precluded that, and he settled for pressing a lingering kiss to the spot, promising himself that one day he'd brand her as his.

Plunkett kept his touches light and gentle, not wanting to frighten her. They'd done more than this before, but this was the first time they were naked together, the first time they both knew that they would take this to its natural conclusion, and that knowledge created a knife's edge of tension.

"Oh, Will…" she sighed as he grazed his hand over her breast, and she arched languidly into his touch, her eyes shining with warmth and contentment and not a trace of fear.

"My Belle," he rasped, filling both hands with her soft curves, unable to tear his gaze away from the sight of his rough hands on her perfect body. He rubbed the undersides with his thumbs, hearing her soft moan of pleasure, before he dared to touch her nipples. They shrank into tight buds at his first tentative caress, and her responsiveness made him groan. Common as he was, Belle welcomed his touch, craved it the same way that he craved her.

Giving into temptation, he lowered his head to press his lips against the sweet bud, and she stiffened with a gasp, her fingers plunging into his hair to hold him in place. "You have to be quiet," he murmured, reminding her of the danger before taking the bud into his mouth and sucking, laving it with his tongue until she was all but tearing his hair out. It felt _good_.

When he looked up, Belle was biting her lip, her face flushed, and he swallowed a groan, running his tongue over the abused flesh until she opened her mouth for him, shifting beneath him until he lay cradled between her thighs. "Will…" she moaned against his mouth, and his cock surged at the pleading note in her voice.

The urge to claim her was all but overwhelming. He could feel her heat, her body already wet and ready for him. With one thrust he could be buried inside her, make her his. Only the thought of hurting her held him back, and he tore his lips from hers to lavish attention on the breast he'd neglected, pulling back just enough that he wasn't pressing against her core.

Belle's hands left his hair to stroke his back, using just her fingertips, and the delicate caress was nearly his undoing. Of course his Belle wasn't content to just lie back and take, of course she wanted to participate. He tugged gently at her nipple with his teeth, having to release her for fear of biting too hard when her hands strayed lower to stroke over his arse.

It was his turn to all but bite through his lip, a smothered, frantic noise escaping him, and Belle stopped, her hands loosely cupping him. "Will? Is this all right?"

He'd been touched by women before, practiced women who knew exactly how to bring a man to his knees, but nothing had ever made his blood boil like Belle's artless caresses. He was the first man she'd ever touched, the _only_ man she'd ever touch if he had anything to say about it, and she was touching him because she wanted him to feel good. Belle had no hidden agenda, wanted nothing but to share pleasure with him, and nothing had ever been so arousing.

He seized her mouth, shoving his tongue deep in an echo of what the other part of him wished to do, and she responded with a muffled gasp, her hands squeezing his arse.

"_Fuck_," he gasped, too riled up to watch his language. "You're going to kill me, love."

There was pride in her smile, and it was well-earned. Grinning, he ducked his head for another kiss, letting his own hands wander over the soft plane of her stomach and her hips before sliding beneath her to give her a squeeze of his own. Belle's teeth nipped at his bottom lip, and he couldn't help the instinctive jerk of his hips, his cock pressing against her stomach for just a moment before he forced himself to pull back.

With a moan of complaint, Belle tossed her head, arching beneath him, "Will, _please_…"

She was going to be the death of him, and he couldn't think of a better way to go. "Soon, love," he promised, running his hand over her quivering thigh, slowly approaching the one place on her body he'd yet to touch.

Carding his fingers through her damp curls, Plunkett watched her face closely for any sign of distress, seeing only excitement, tempered by a hint of nervousness. "I won't hurt you," he vowed again, sealing his promise with a press of his lips to hers.

"I know," she whispered back, "I'm not scared."

"That's my brave girl," he crooned, letting his fingers stray lower, just brushing over her folds for long moments before he dared delve deeper. She grabbed his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin in a way he was willing to bet she was unaware of. He held himself still, her delicious wetness coating his fingers, until she gave a small nod of encouragement.

She was so hot and slick against his fingers that he could barely keep control, thinking about how glorious she would feel against his cock. Belle felt like heaven, and he could only imagine how incredible she would taste as he carefully explored, searching for places that made her eyes widen and breath catch.

He couldn't resist kissing her trembling mouth, quenching his thirst with her lips. No matter what she'd said, asking to use his mouth on her would surely shock her, and Plunkett didn't want her to think him depraved. Later he'd broach the idea, sometime when they didn't have to worry about being quiet for fear of being caught. One day soon he'd make her scream for him as he drank her down.

For now this was more than enough, and he teased the sweet little nub of flesh that made her quiver and claw at his shoulders like she was about to fly apart. With another soft kiss, he allowed one finger to slip into her, feeling her clench around him, almost unbearably tight.

"Will!" she gasped against his mouth, and he licked her lips soothingly.

"I'm here," he promised, thrusting gently with his finger and circling just a little, encouraging her muscles to relax and accept him. With a moan she did, and he eased another finger into her, swallowing down her soft cries.

She was so incredibly tight just around his fingers that Plunkett couldn't imagine how he was going to do this without hurting her. He'd made her a promise, and he scissored his fingers carefully, doing his best to open her up for him, completely unprepared for Belle to lean up and nip at his bottom lip. "Now, Will," she demanded, "Take me."

The noise he made was an equal parts groan of pleasure and plea for mercy. He would give Belle anything she asked for, and he could only hope she wouldn't regret it. He captured her lips as he withdrew his fingers from her body, taking himself in hand.

"I love you," he murmured as he lined himself up, watching her eyes carefully as he pushed his hips forward, easing the head of his cock into her. When he didn't see pain, he thrust a little deeper, her wet heat nearly driving him mad.

Slow. He had to be slow and gentle, but it was so hard when she was twitching her hips and begging for more. "You're inside me," she whispered with wonder.

"Yes, I am, love," he murmured, pulling back a little so he could give another gentle thrust. "That's me inside you."

Another thrust let him feel the thin barrier that marked her purity, and he cradled her face in his hands. "Belle, I'm sorry," he rasped, covering her mouth with his as he pushed forward, breeching her maidenhead and sheathing himself to the hilt, his hips flush against hers.

She felt glorious wrapped around him, her body almost painfully tight, but he was half-afraid to lift his head and see the condemnation in her eyes. He'd promised not to hurt her, yet there was no way he hadn't.

Plunkett forced himself to lift his mouth from hers, wincing at the tears that sparkled in her blue eyes. Her body was tense beneath his, yet she reached up to caress the side of his face, her smile tremulous. "I love you, Will."

Relief flooded him. She wasn't angry. She didn't hate him. "I love you too."

He held himself still within her, the feel of her body wrapped around him tearing at his sanity as he stroked his hands over her, caressing and soothing as best he could until he felt her relax with a sigh of pleasure, her muscles losing their tension and allowing him to slide just a bit deeper.

He had to move; staying still was no longer an option. Plunkett struggled to keep his thrusts gentle, just rocking his hips against her. Belle felt incredibly fragile beneath him despite her indomitable spirit, and he was terrified of hurting her.

For a few minutes, he managed a slow rhythm, and his reward for enduring that exquisite torture was Belle's soft moans of pleasure, her eyes alight with surprise and happiness. He was pleasing her, and he was willing to do anything to keep her making those noises.

He nearly went mad when Belle wrapped her legs around his hips, arching up into him. "More," she whispered, her nails digging into the back of his neck. "More, please."

The heat from the fire had nothing on the flames that were licking at him from the inside, his stomach clenching as he fought to keep from disgracing himself. He was buried inside Belle, and she was begging him for more, and nothing in his life had ever compared to this moment.

"Anything," he grunted, sliding his arm around her waist to change the angle, letting him push deeper yet. He picked up his pace, pulling almost all the way out of her before pushing back in with a long stroke, careful not to slam his hips forward. He wouldn't be rough with her. They had a lifetime to experiment with this, and he was going to have her every which way, but her first time had to be gentle.

Belle was making it very hard to hold onto his resolve, her soft little whimpers of pleasure driving him wild. Desperately, he seized her mouth with his own, drinking down those delicious noises as he struggled to hold on and maintain his rhythm.

She stroked the back of his neck, tugging at his hair in a way that sent shivers down his spine, and he thrust his tongue deep, mimicking the movements of his lower body as he slid his hand around in search of the special bud of nerves he'd found earlier.

She tensed at the first brush of his fingers, and if he hadn't had his mouth plastered to hers, her cry would have roused the household. As it was, her muffled cry nearly drove him over the edge, and he touched her again, more deliberately this time. He wanted to last for hours, to thrust and tease and please her until daybreak, but she was perfection, and he was only a man.

"I'm here," he whispered against her mouth, daring to take his lips from hers long enough to reassure her. "Relax, love. Let it happen. It's supposed to happen. I've got you."

He swallowed down her cry as her heels dug into his lower back, her innocent body demanding more of him, and Plunkett was only too happy to oblige. He circled the bud with his finger, gently flicking the top of it with every thrust, his back arching as he tried to push deeper yet.

When she tensed, he paused where he was- buried to the hilt within her- and just rocked his hips, pushing against her as his finger rubbed the little bud until she screamed into his mouth, her body arching and trembling helplessly in his arms. It was all he could do not to follow her immediately over the edge, but he clung to his self-control and kept moving gently, trying to draw it out as much as he could as he drank down her noises of pleasure.

Only when Belle had stilled, panting for breath as her hands stroked his hair in benediction, did Plunkett let himself go, burying his face against her throat as he thrust a little faster and more sharply, his body desperate for release.

He managed only a handful of thrusts more before he could no longer hold back, muffling his own cry against her neck as his body shook, and Belle held him fiercely close, whispering sweet words of praise in his ear.

Keeping his arms around her, he rolled onto his side, making sure Belle was closer to the fire so she wouldn't feel chilled. "That was _wonderful_, Will," she purred, and he took her mouth, his hands moving lazily over her. He'd pleased her, and Belle was his now. It didn't get any better than this.

They dozed in front of the fire until the floor grew too hard for comfort even through the plush rug. He scooped her up in his arms, relishing her smile as he carried her to the bed and tucked her in. It wasn't until he was climbing in beside her that he realized he hadn't pulled out of her as he'd intended, and for a moment cold fear crept through him.

Belle smiled up at him, and he dismissed the fear as he leaned down for a kiss. In a month they'd be married. If they'd started a baby, so be it. Belle would be a wonderful mother, and it would be good to be a family.

He pulled her closer, his body already responding to her as they snuggled together beneath the bed linens. A month wasn't long, but in that moment it seemed endless. The thought of having to leave her was painful, but they still had until dawn. They'd make the most of it.


	8. Chapter 6

Macleane stared at him defiantly, daring him to say a single word as he dumped the bags full of metal trash onto the floor. He'd been a fool to trust Macleane, to think that he was somehow better than the rest of his breed. He was just like the rest- spoiled, selfish, and thoughtless. Belle was the only exception, and if his partner's actions had only hurt him, he might have borne it more gracefully.

Instead, Macleane had gambled away Belle's future as well as Plunkett's own, and for that he'd never forgive the man. Rising to his feet, he took a moment to relish the way his partner- _former_ partner- shied back before slamming his fist into his face, needing to leave the rooms before he lost his mind and killed the fucking bastard.

He staggered off into the gathering dusk, Macleane's words still ringing in his ears. Every penny of his carefully-hoarded stash was gone, wasted by his partner on clothes and gambling. The money that would have guaranteed a good life in America for him and Belle was gone, and he had _nothing_ to offer her.

He'd ruined her in every sense of the word. Last night, the thought that they might have started a baby had been a pleasant one. What did it matter if they'd anticipated their wedding vows by a month or so? By the time she started showing they'd be married and in America, starting a new life together. Now that dream had shattered, and society would tear her apart if Belle found herself carrying a street rat's bastard.

Even if she still permitted him to steal her away, they'd be right back where he'd started- homeless and penniless. She'd suffer like Mary had, and he would not allow it. Belle trusted him to defend and provide for her, and he would _not_ let her down.

Raking his hands through his hair, he lashed out, kicking the stone wall as hard as he could, the pain in his foot doing nothing to distract him from the agony burning in his chest. Every one of his carefully-constructed plans was falling apart due to Macleane's _fucking_ selfishness, and he wished he'd hit his partner a few more times when he'd had the chance.

"Fuck!" he hissed, sinking down the wall with his face in his hands. He had to _think_. He was an intelligent man, the brains of their operation. There had to be an answer. He needed money, a substantial amount in a single heist, and Macleane couldn't be involved. If he never saw his partner again, it would be too soon for him. Let him play the gentleman highwayman and moon after Rebecca. Plunkett had more urgent considerations.

He'd had the right idea at the beginning. Macleane's pox-ridden paramour was the richest woman in England. The mistake he'd made was in assuming she and her guests wore their wealth. Tonight she was celebrating being able to hold onto her new husband for a full two months. He'd arrange a distraction at the front, slip in the back, and make off with enough to get him and Belle settled. They'd leave in the morning.

It was a riskier proposition than he liked. Robbing a guarded vault was a far cry from holding up a few carriages or helping himself to a bookseller's wares, but he had no choice. If he and Belle were going to make their escape, this had to be done.

Thus married to his cause, Plunkett returned to the rooms, discovering that Macleane was already gone. He headed straight for his workshop, assembling what he'd need for the night's activities. The distraction would have to be big but ultimately harmless since Belle would be in attendance. A loud smoke bomb or three spiked with something sufficiently noisome with a delayed fuse would do handsomely. Even so, he'd warn her to stay to the center of the room.

He barely finished in time, and when he made it to the estate, the party was already in full swing. Taking a chance, he planted a bomb by each entrance before setting any of the fuses, wanting them to detonate as close to simultaneously as he could arrange.

Somehow, no one noticed his activities, and emboldened by his success he slipped through the servant's entrance and joined the party, counting off the seconds in his head. He still had three minutes and twenty seconds before he needed to be in position, plenty of time to grab a glass of champagne for Belle.

As he moved through the crowd, Plunkett could feel Macleane's eyes upon him, and he studiously ignored his former partner, intent on Belle. He finally got close enough to speak to her through her circle of admirers, and he offered the glass with a deferential bow. "Lady Isabelle."

She took it, her blue eyes searching his face, and he tried to communicate everything he felt with the brief glimpse they were allowed. _ I love you. I'll come for you. I won't let you down. _ As she took the glass from his hand, he stumbled forward clumsily, putting his mouth near her ear. "Stay away from the doors."

"Will?" her concerned whisper was lost in the cacophony of hoots and jibes that his clumsiness earned him, and he ducked his head apologetically, wishing there was a way he could explain himself.

Time was ticking away, and Plunkett didn't let himself look back as he slipped out of the ballroom. No one stopped a servant with a mission, and he held his head high, walking the halls like he owned them as he moved deeper into the house, taking his position in a shadowed alcove.

In thirty seconds the bombs would detonate, the guards would rush to see what was happening, and he'd be left alone to help himself to as much as he could carry. It would work. It had to work.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the memory of Belle's face smiling at him in the moonlight, drowsy and sated. She was worth any risk. He touched her lock of hair for luck, reminding himself that it was their future at stake. This had to work. Counting down the remaining time, he allowed himself a small smile at the resounding _boom_ of the smoke bombs, loud enough to rattle the chandeliers. Shrinking back further into his alcove, he slipped on his mask and waited for the guards' ringing steps to pass him as they headed for the ballroom, then he moved quickly down the corridor.

The dead end gave him little room to maneuver, but he didn't need much. There were locks on the door, but to his trained eye they were hardly more impressive than the one that had failed to prevent him from robbing the bookseller. Lock-pick at the ready, Plunkett went to work, nudging each tumbler into position with a quietly satisfying click until the door swung open on its well-oiled hinges.

With a fierce grin of satisfaction, he shoved it open, rising from his crouch to enter when a sound behind him suddenly caught his attention. Turning on his heel, he discovered that not every guard had gone to investigate the disturbance, and he saw the glint of a pistol in the dim light.

Forgoing his own gun, Plunkett rushed the man, clamping his hand over the guard's mouth as he bore him back to the floor. Any noise they made would bring reinforcements, and he didn't like the odds of fighting his way through a corridor filled with guards.

With his free hand, he groped for the man's wrist, trying first to ensure that his gun wasn't pointed at him and second to force him to drop it. Gritting his teeth, he managed to wrench the man's hand above his head, twisting his wrist in hopes of forcing him to loosen his grip. Before he could succeed, the bastard sunk his teeth into the flesh of his hand and brought his head up sharply into Plunkett's nose.

He hissed a curse as he felt something break, hot blood trickling over his upper lip and the guard took advantage of his distraction to heave him off, bringing the pistol around.

"Fuck!" He slammed his foot into the guard's knee, and the shot went wide, chipping the stone near his head. Jumping to his feet, he grabbed the gun and brought the butt down onto the guard's head, knocking him out cold, but the damage was done. Plunkett could already hear the sound of charging feet coming his way, and he cast a frantic look around, knowing he was caught.

He couldn't simply do nothing, so he ripped off his mask and sprinted back the way he'd come, shouting "Thief!" at the top of his lungs, hoping to create enough confusion that he had a prayer of getting away in the aftermath.

"Someone's robbing the vault!" he announced as soon as he saw the four approaching guards, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the way he'd come, and three of them ran right past him to ensure the safety of the treasures. The fourth grabbed him by his collar, shoving him into the stone wall.

"And what were you doing there?" he questioned, thrusting his hand into Plunkett's coat. He'd find no valuables, but the mask and sufficient weaponry to take over a small country would be enough to condemn him.

"Delivering a message," he snapped back, aiming for Macleane's haughty 'how dare you question me, peasant?' tone.

Apparently, he wasn't as good at it as Macleane. "Really?" the guard smirked, withdrawing his hand with Plunkett's mask clasped in it. "And what were you doing with this? Warding off frostbite?"

The other guards were returning, and he didn't have room or time to grab his gun. Instead, Plunkett crashed his forehead into the other man's temple, stunning him long enough to squirm out of his hold, and _ran_.

He felt the shot before he heard it, the bullet tearing through the meat of his calf, and he managed two more steps before his leg gave out, his head slamming into the stone floor as he fell.

"Fuck!" he swore, having just enough time to reflect that as last words went, his left something to be desired before everything went black.


	9. Chapter 7

Waking up without his hands bound was a surprise. Plunkett lay still, keeping his eyes closed and his breathing slow and even as he took stock. He didn't seem to be bound in any way, and wherever he was seemed far too quiet to be a prison. His head ached and leg hurt, which meant that he was still alive, ruling out Heaven or more likely Hell. Even more perplexingly he was warm, and whatever he was lying on was comfortable. Really, he was stumped.

Opening his eyes, he found himself staring at a high ceiling that seemed somehow familiar, and a quick glance around the room told him that he was in Macleane's bed.

As if the thought of his partner's existence had conjured him, Macleane walked into the room, all but slamming a glass of wine down on the table by his head. "Even I could have told you that was a stupid plan," he complained, "You're supposed to be the smart one."

"If you hadn't spent all our money, it wouldn't have been necessary," he snarled back. He'd known the plan was foolhardy, but his impatience had outweighed his good sense, and he didn't appreciate the reminder of it. He'd failed; he was injured, and now there was no hope of him stealing Belle away any time soon. He'd failed her.

Macleane shrugged off the complaint, dumping half the wine into Plunkett's mouth before taking a swig himself. "Since I'm the reason you're not dead or in prison, I think you should be a little nicer."

"I wondered about that," he allowed.

Since his comment gave Macleane an opening to talk about himself, his partner happily seized it. "I knew you were up to something, and when I heard the shots, I knew you needed help."

As far as deductions went, it wasn't exactly impressive, but Macleane had still shown more brainpower than most of his class was capable of doing. He nodded gruffly, and Macleane continued, "I told the guards I'd sent you to guard the vault because I'd heard a rumor that the gentlemen highway were planning to rob it. Clearly no highwayman would be foolish enough to carry his mask with him, so obviously the real thief had planted it on you."

As ruses went it was weak, but Macleane's confidence and demeanor had obviously carried the day. He was still justifiably irate about the money, but he had to admit that his partner had saved his life. "Thank you."

Macleane looked insufferably proud of himself, but before he could say anything more there was a ruckus in the outer room. "You will not bar my way!" a female voice snapped, and Plunkett sat up on his elbows as Belle slammed her way into the room, Rochester trailing behind her.

If he was surprised, Macleane was shocked. His partner actually half-bowed at her arrival. "Lady Isabelle?"

Belle didn't even look at him. "Will!" she gasped, brushing past Macleane to join him on the bed, her eyes searching him for any sign of injury. "Are you all right? What happened?"

Small hands framed his face, and he smiled up into her worried eyes, trying to reassure her. "Bullet grazed my leg. It's just a scratch." In truth he was pretty sure it had torn through the muscle, but there was no need to worry her.

A finger traced the length of his nose, reminding him that it was probably broken, then Belle's mouth collided with his, and Plunkett forgot about his discomfort. He plunged his fingers into her elaborate hairstyle, sending pins flying as his tongue stroked hers. Across the room he could hear Macleane stammering nonsensically before Rochester said, "Come along, Jamie," and the bedroom door closed behind them.

With Belle in his arms, all was right with his world. He'd think of something else, come up with another plan, and they'd be together. Next time he'd let Macleane in on it and take his time to plan properly.

She pulled away from him, her lips slightly swollen, and before he could tug her down to him again, her hand slammed into the side of his face hard enough to make his jaw ache. "What were you thinking?!" she raged. "You tried to rob Lady Darcy's home! You're a highwayman; you don't do things like that! You could have been killed!"

"Belle…" He tried to take her hands as much to comfort her as to prevent another stinging slap, but she was having none of it.

"How could you be so stupid, Will? That's not like you! Why did you do it?" Her face was flushed with anger, and he could only imagine what Macleane and Rochester were thinking.

"I did it for you!" he all but shouted when she paused for breath. When she gaped at him, he hastened to explain, "My partner… There was a misunderstanding. We didn't have enough money for America. It would have been months longer, and I didn't want to wait. If it had worked, we could have left tomorrow."

Belle stared at him, her blue eyes boring into his very soul. "You tried to get yourself killed for _me_?" she asked, a dangerous note in her voice.

"For us," he protested, heart sinking when she got off the bed.

"And you didn't think to mention any of this to me?" It was a fair question. He'd trusted Belle with his name and his secrets from the beginning, but he'd kept this from her.

"I didn't want to worry you," he said weakly. He'd wanted to be her hero, play the dashing highwayman. In his own way he'd gotten as lost in the part as Macleane had, and the results were just as bad.

Her jaw tensed. "Then it's a good thing you _getting shot _didn't worry me," she snapped.

Before he could say anything else in his own defense, she stormed out of the room as quickly as she'd come, slamming the door behind her. "Belle!" he shouted, his leg collapsing under him when he tried to follow her, and he flopped back on the bed with a grunt of disgust with himself and with the universe in general.

His head and leg were throbbing in tandem, and he was almost thankful for the pain. It distracted him from the ache in his chest. He'd dismissed Macleane's dramatics about Rebecca as his partner's theatrical nature, but perhaps he should have been more sympathetic.

"Fuck," he muttered, glaring up at the ceiling. He was penniless, injured, and Belle was furious with him. This was not at all how he'd planned for this night to go. To distract himself, he rolled up the leg of his trousers to check the wound, seeing that someone had the sense to clean and bandage it for him. It was clean enough, had missed striking bone, and he apparently wasn't going to bleed to death. He'd be fine. Somehow that didn't make him feel any better.

He looked up hopefully when the door opened, but it was just Macleane again. "I'm not the only one who's been keeping secrets," his partner observed as he sat down on the bed next to him. "Lady Isabelle French. You aim high."

"Fuck off," he muttered, but his heart wasn't in it.

Macleane handed him his flask. "How'd you meet her?"

He reached into his pocket for her lock of hair, his stomach turning when he realized it was gone. It must have fallen out when the guard grabbed his mask, and Plunkett wanted to be sick. Her hair was his talisman. As long as he had it, he and Belle would always find each other. Now it was gone.

"I robbed her carriage," he rasped. "Ran into her again that night we almost got caught."

Macleane let out a low whistle. "I was hiding out in a brothel, and you were with Lady Isabelle. That hardly seems fair."

Privately, Plunkett thought his partner had probably been quite happy in the brothel, but he didn't argue. "We had a plan. We were going to America."

"Oh," Macleane said softly. "The money."

"Yeah." His partner said nothing further, just indicated that he should keep drinking. Plunkett considered it excellent advice. Eventually the alcohol managed to dull the pain in his leg and his head, and although his heart still ached, he felt fuzzy enough to sleep. If worst came to worst he could always climb through her window again, night after night if he had to until she forgave him. Somehow he'd make her understand.


	10. Chapter 8

His nose hurt less the following morning, replaced by the ache in his head from drinking far too much whiskey the night before. Groaning, Plunkett covered his face with his hands, trying to force his beleaguered brain into functioning. Yesterday he'd been hasty and overconfident and paid the price. Today he would actually _use_ his vaunted intellect and find a way to regain the money Macleane had lost.

He got as far as listing their assets before the sound of a slamming door went through his head like a spike, and by the time he managed to get his eyes open again, Belle was standing next to the bed, dressed more simply than he'd ever seen her and glaring down at him like she'd like to slap him again.

Despite the look on her face, her presence made him heave a sigh of relief. She'd come back, and that was a blessing because he wasn't going to be up for climbing through her bedroom window for the next week or so. If she was here, she had to be willing to talk.

Before he could think of anything to say, two squares of cardboard landed on his chest, and he fumbled for them without taking his eyes from Belle's face. "I'm still furious with you," she informed him, and he nodded, glancing down to see what he was holding.

The pair of tickets dropped out of his nerveless fingers, and Belle smirked down at him, then deposited herself on the edge of the bed beside him. "My mother left me fifteen thousand pounds when she died. We leave next week."

For a long moment Plunkett couldn't even understand what she'd said. With that sum of money at their disposal, they'd want for nothing in starting their new life, and she'd never even hinted that it was an option. "Why didn't-" He cut himself off as realization struck, then answered his own question, "I didn't ask."

"You never said anything about money, just that we had to wait," she agreed, and he thought back over every conversation they'd ever had about America. Belle was right; he'd never said a word about their finances, assuming she'd understand the delay. Money was ever an issue for him, but Belle was noble. The thought had probably never even crossed her mind. He was seven kinds a fool. If he'd just talked to her, they could have left weeks ago.

"I'm sorry, Belle," he murmured, not quite daring to take her hand.

She had no such compunctions. Instead, she leaned over and braced her hands on either side of his head, her face inches from his. "You should be," she informed him. "If you ever try to hide something from me again, I will shoot you myself. _I'm_ your partner now."

Belle was his equal in every way. Denying that had nearly gotten him killed; he wouldn't make the same mistake again. She was his perfect match, his soon-to-be wife, and his partner, and he could imagine nothing more perfect. "You're certainly easier on the eyes than Macleane," he allowed, and she let out a most unladylike snort.

"I think you can do better than that," she chided, her prim tone belied by how close she was leaning to his mouth.

Plunkett wrapped his arms around her and tipped her onto her back in a quick motion, reversing their positions. He braced his knee against the mattress by her hip, keeping his weight off the gunshot wound, but even if he'd been in agony it would have been worth it for the way Belle's eyes sparkled up at him. "I love you."

Her face went soft and dreamy at the words. "I love you too, Will."

He had just brushed his lips against hers when another thought struck him, and he sat back, pride briefly filling him at her noise of protest. "What about your father?"

"I'd rather leave him in England if you don't mind," she muttered, trying to tug him back down, and he evaded her.

"What are you going to tell him?" he clarified, wondering if they could escape before his Grace challenged him to pistols at dawn. Belle, he was reasonably sure, would not approve of him shooting her father.

"The truth," she beamed up at him, "One of the gentleman highwaymen ruined me, and we have to get married. If he doesn't let me go there will be a _dreadful_ scandal."

"Your reputation..." he cautioned her, and she made a rude noise.

"Hang my reputation," she scoffed. "Did you know that there's a college in America that admits women? No one will be the slightest bit surprised by me deciding to brave the wilderness to go to school."

Her eyes glowed at the idea, and Plunkett was suddenly sure that her ruse wasn't going to remain a ruse for long. It would be a cozy life- him with his apothecary shop and Belle with her schooling. He was certain that she'd end up teaching him a thing or two. "Scotland first?" he suggested. After all, she'd been the one to say they had to get married.

His heart sank when Belle shook her head. "You are going to spend the week in bed if I have to tie you up," she pronounced. "You were just _shot_, Will. I want you well for our voyage. The captain can marry us when we get on board."

If she'd keep him company in the bed, no ropes would be necessary, and she seemed to read his mind at his smirk. "I suppose I can visit every so often," she sighed, sounding most put out. "I'm already ruined."

"I'll make it worth your while," he promised, lowering his head so his lips just brushed hers, not quite kissing her. "Say you'll marry me."

"I just did," she argued, lifting her head and grumbling when he evaded her lips.

"Say it again. Say you'll be my wife." After months of longing, Belle was finally his. In a week they'd be man and wife and starting their new life together.

"I'll marry you," she whispered, her eyes shining, and he claimed her mouth with a groan, a delicious thought occurring to him. There was no one to overhear them here except Macleane, and hopefully his partner had had the sense to make himself scarce. While Belle would no doubt end up teaching him all sorts of things once she started her schooling, he had something more basic to teach her.

Belle arched beneath him, the way her hands were moving over his back telling him that he was well on his way to being forgiven. "I love you, Belle," he murmured against her mouth, and she sobbed, her fingers diving into his hair to pull him down for another kiss.

"You scared me," she confessed when they had to pull apart to breathe, "Worse than the highwayman did. I thought I lost you."

"I'm a tough bastard," he reminded her, nuzzling guiltily at her throat. Plunkett wanted to give Belle nothing but happiness, and he'd frightened her.

"Never again," she demanded, tugging on his hair until they were face to face.

"Never again," he promised, sealing it with a kiss. "Let me make it up to you."

His hand found her breast, squeezing it in the way he'd discovered she liked best, and Belle moaned loudly, her eyes flying open in panic the moment she made the sound.

"There's no one to hear us, love," he reminded her, "You can make noise."

She bit her lip, her face flushing in adorable shyness. "It's a bit.. wanton," she explained breathlessly as he teased her nipple.

"It's a bit arousing," he countered, "Hearing you moaning for me… You don't know what it does to me."

If anything, her blush only deepened at his words, but his Belle was brave as a lion. "Show me?" she asked.

He grinned. "With pleasure," he assured her, availing himself of her mouth again as he went to work on the fastenings of her dress, trying not to tear it in his need to have her naked and pressed against him as soon as possible. For her part, Belle was busy too, undoing his shirt and smoothing her hands over his chest in a most distracting way, and if he didn't get control of himself, her pretty dress was going to be in tatters.

It seemed to take hours before they finally got their clothes off, and Plunkett said a quick prayer of thanks when he discovered that her underpinnings were far less complicated than the ones she wore under her ornate gowns. If they hadn't been, he would have taken his dagger to them.

His headache had vanished, even the pain in his leg fading to insignificance with the wonder of having Belle in his arms again. Their first night together had been far too short, but now they had all day. They had a lifetime.

Although Belle tried to be quiet, Plunkett dedicated himself to provoking more of her beautiful moans, lavishing her breasts with kisses and gentle bites until she was crying out for him, heedless of propriety. There was no need for such things in this bed. They were soon to be man and wife, truly one, and there should be no distance between them.

Once she was breathless and moaning continually, he lifted his mouth from her breasts. "Belle, love? There's something I'd like to do. Will you let me?"

"Yes," she gasped, tossing her head impatiently as he traced his hands over her sides. His Belle was a vixen, and he was the luckiest bastard in the world.

"Breathe for me," he coaxed, leaving her breasts to kiss his way over her stomach, and she petted his hair, shifting restlessly beneath him until he reached the sweet nest of curls between her legs.

Belle gasped, her body going tense as her fingers tightened in his hair. Plunkett pressed a soft kiss to her damp curls, trying not to groan at the scent of her. "You said I could," he reminded gently, giving her another gentle kiss, "I won't if you don't want me to."

"You… you _want_ to?" she asked raggedly, and he nodded, resting his chin on her hip as he looked up at her.

"Very much. I promise it will feel good. Like when I used my fingers but better. I'll stop if you want me to," he vowed, hoping he'd have the strength to keep his word.

For a long moment, Belle didn't move a muscle, then she shyly parted her legs, her body still tense. "Thank you, love," he murmured, gripping her hips and squeezing softly, trying to encourage her to relax. Moving slowly, he pressed a firmer kiss to her curls, nuzzling against them as he inhaled deeply, sighing at her scent. "You smell incredible."

She made a soft squeaking sound, and when he looked up her face was beet red, but the fingers in his hair had begun to pet him again, and she didn't seem to be trembling quite as much.

Ever so slowly, he worked his way down, barely letting his lips touch her as he tried to give her time to adjust to the idea of having him there. Only when her nails scratched against his scalp did he let himself breech her folds with just the tip of his tongue, and Belle made an inhuman noise, her fingers nearly tearing out his hair.

Plunkett froze but didn't pull back. "Should I stop?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

Her grip on his hair loosened, and she stroked her fingers apologetically over his head. "I think I liked it," she confessed, and he grinned, letting himself drink more deeply of her.

She tasted every bit as good as she smelled. There was a purity to Belle that Plunkett had never expected to find. She was far too good for the likes of him, but somehow she'd chosen him, and he'd never have the strength to let her go. All he could do was try to be worthy of her.

He lapped at her ravenously, listening to her little gasps and cries of pleasure to tell him when he'd done something right and repeating the movements she seemed to like best until she was all but writhing beneath him, her cries taking on a frightened edge.

Reaching up, he grabbed her hand and squeezed, trying to reassure her. "I've got you," he rasped, lifting his mouth off of her for only a moment. "Let it happen, love. I'm here."

She tensed, and he ran his tongue up the length of her folds, feeling her shudder the instant before she let out a pealing cry that was the most beautiful noise he'd ever heard. "Will!" she moaned as he kept lapping at her, trying to prolong it, and he looked up when she tugged at his hair.

There were tears in her eyes, and he left off what he was doing at once to wrap his arms around her, frightened that he'd managed to hurt her or frighten her again. Belle nuzzled against his throat, her panting breath making his skin tingle.

"Let's not go to America," she muttered, and his heart nearly stopped. A small kiss against his neck reassured him slightly, then she mumbled, "Let's just stay in bed forever."

He chuckled, nudging his hard cock against her belly to let her know just how much he liked that idea. "We don't have to go anywhere for a week," he reminded her, pretending that she'd be able to spend the entire intervening time in bed with him.

"I'm sure America has beds," she sighed, lifting her head to smile up at him, her eyes still a little dazed, and the thought that he'd put that look in them filled him with pride.

"We'll get the biggest one there," he promised, rolling her under him again as he set to work teaching her everything he knew about this art, the second of many lessons they'd teach each other in the lifetime to come.


	11. Epilogue

The colony of Pennsylvania was quite pretty, but Plunkett knew that anywhere would look good after their long sea voyage. They'd been married their first day on board the ship, but the rise and fall of the waves had rendered both of them too ill to even think about consummating their marriage.

Now, two days after their arrival, the queasiness had abated enough that they were able to explore their new home, and they left the boarding house arm in arm, Plunkett hoping that the fresh air would restore them enough that they'd be able to resume their more pleasurable activities later that day. If they hadn't anticipated their vows, his wife would still be a virgin, and that wouldn't do at all.

Belle's eyes were warm as she smiled up at him, so she clearly wasn't too disappointed by his recent shoddy performance. He'd thought she looked lovely even with a greenish tint to her face, but the roses returning to her cheeks suited her far better. "Happy, love?"

"Very happy, my husband," she assured him as she hugged his arm, and he couldn't resist holding his head a little higher in pride at the affectionate address. Belle wasn't an earl's daughter here. In America they were equals, but everyone who looked at her had to know how special she was. Belle was a jewel without price, and for some reason, she looked at him with love in her eyes and had deigned to be his wife. Sometimes Plunkett had trouble believing that this was truly his life.

In his opinion, her linen dress suited her even better than ruffles and silk ever had. Her sensible blue dress called attention to her lovely face, her beauty shining even more brightly in this simple setting.

It didn't take long to walk the town's main street, but Belle seemed fascinated by everything, sticking a curious nose into each and every shop they passed along the way. Once they reached the end of the row of shops, she stopped, bringing him to a halt with her as she gazed at the empty space. "Do you see it, Will?"

He followed her gaze, trying to see what she was seeing and failing. "What?"

"Your shop," she turned to smile up at him, her eyes sparkling with joy. "This would be the perfect place for your shop."

Wrapping his arm around her, he looked again, and this time he could see it as clearly as she seemed to: a little shop where he could put his talents to good use, perhaps with a back room so Belle could read and study in between helping him with customers, and in a few years they'd add a child or two that they'd have to keep out of the medicines and potions. "I see it."

He looked down at her, unable to keep from matching her smile as he twined one of her curls around his finger. Her stolen curl was long gone, but now he had all of her curls close at hand. It was a fair trade.

"What?" she asked, blushing when he kept looking at her, unable to look away.

Plunkett tugged lightly on her curl. "I'm just thinking how glad I am that I stole you."

Belle laughed out loud at that, tugging on his arm to lead him back towards their room. "Don't be silly, Will," she scolded, her dimples betraying her. "I stole you."


End file.
